


One Moment of Knowing That

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-28
Updated: 2007-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27660256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: As Obelix would say, if you're off your food, you're ill. Of course, he never met the Winchesters.
Kudos: 4





	One Moment of Knowing That

When Sam is twelve years old – in fact, Dean’s pretty sure it’s on Sam’s twelfth birthday, because the little geek’s weirdly precise like that – he starts to eat. It’s not that Sam didn’t eat before, of course, he ate whatever shit Dean gave him, Lucky Charms and Funyuns and freakin dirt a few times when he was too little to know any better, but when he’s twelve ( _on his twelfth birthday_ ), he starts to _eat_. He goes from eleven and ordering fishsticks from the kids’ menu to twelve and eating practically a whole freakin horse at every meal, and Dean kinda stares and Dad makes this weird harrumphing noise like he wants to chew Sam out but can’t figure out what for, but Sam just ignores them both and eats like he’s never gonna have the chance again.   
  
It’s weird, is what it is, because OK, yeah, Dean started eating more when he got to around that age, too, but Dean went from just pancakes to pancakes with two sides, and Sam doesn’t even bother with sides, he just gets two mains (sometimes three, Jesus), and Dean would totally wonder where he put it all if it wasn’t for the fact that pretty damn soon after he starts _eating_ , Sam starts to get fat. Well, OK, chubby, whatever, the point is, Sam is clearly eating way too much, and Dad sends him on extra laps and makes him do sit-ups till the freakin cows come home or whatever, but Sam stays chubby ( _fat_ ), and Dad still apparently can’t quite bring himself to forbid Sam from eating, so chubby is what Sam is.  
  
And then, when Sam’s thirteen – and Dean has no _proof_ that it’s on Sam’s thirteenth birthday, but come on, it’s gotta be, right? -- Sam starts to grow. It’s not that Sam didn’t grow before, of course, Christ, otherwise he’d still be, like, a foot tall or whatever, but when he’s thirteen ( _on his thirteenth birthday_ ) he starts to _grow_. He goes from twelve and four foot six to thirteen and five feet tall, and it _can’t_ be overnight, but Dean’s damned if he can figure out when the hell it happened. Sam starts falling over a lot and smacking his head on things and generally acting like an idiot (no change there, right?), and Dean snickers and trips him and Dad frowns like he wants to yell at Sam for not being a baby any more, but Sam just grows like he’s got an appointment in the stratosphere, and Dean finally figures out where all that food went to, and figures it’s just like Sam to have started eating a year too early.  
  
When Sam’s eighteen, he’s six foot one, and Dean thinks probably he’s not going to grow any more, right? Because people don’t grow when they’re adults, and eighteen’s adult, right? So yeah, Sam’s not going to grow any more, and seriously, he’s grown _enough_ , little freak looking Dean right in the eye. But the thing is, when Sam’s eighteen, he slams the door and leaves a silence behind that lasts for four years, and the next time Dean sees him close up, his brain’s too busy with _Sammy_ to really notice how tall the kid is.  
  
Until he stands up, anyway. Jesus Christ.  
  
Sam’s grown four freakin inches since he’s been gone, and Dean hasn’t grown at all, and that? Is _totally_ unfair. And the worst thing is, Sam still eats like the freakin Jolly Green Giant or whatever, and Dean says he must have eaten half of Stanford, and Sam grins and says something about how his hot girlfriend makes awesome cookies. Dean’s not really listening, though, he’s just watching Sam eat and thinking _Sammy_ , and pretty soon after that, Dean’s got other things to worry about than how much Sam’s eating.  
  
For a little while, anyway.  
  
\----  
  
Three days after Jess dies, Dean physically hauls Sam into a diner and dumps him at a table, shooting the waitress a grin he doesn’t really feel to get her to serve them quicker. Sam’s alternating between semi-catatonia and the kind of fury that makes Dean want to just lock himself in the bathroom until it’s over, and when the waitress comes over, he just stares. Dean clears his throat and orders Sam a cheeseburger with everything, something simple, easy, Sam needs to eat, Jesus.  
  
It’s ten minutes before the burger arrives, and Sam just sits there the whole time, staring down at his hands like he doesn’t even know Dean’s there. The waitress puts his food in front of him, and he doesn’t even twitch, and Dean stares at him for five minutes, doesn’t take his eyes off him at all, but Sam might as well be made of stone.  
  
Finally, Dean leans over the table and pushes the plate forward a little. “Sammy,” he says, trying to sound as gentle as possible, “if you don’t eat this freakin burger I swear to God I’m gonna shove it down your throat.”  
  
Sam’s head snaps up, and Dean can’t stop himself flinching back from the expression on his face. He thinks Sam’s gonna punch him or walk out or something, but he just stares for a second, then picks up the burger and shoves it in his mouth, takes a huge bite. He chews twice, three times, and then the colour drains out of his face and he coughs, chokes, and spits the mouthful back on his plate. The guy at the next table shoots them a disgusted look, but when Dean looks back he blanches, looks away.  
  
“Sammy?” says Dean.  
  
“Tastes of smoke,” mutters Sam, and pushes his chair back, stalks out. Dean picks up the rest of the burger and smells it, but it’s just a burger, not even burnt. Ketchup drips between Dean’s fingers, and he thinks _Sammy_.  
  
\----  
  
Four days after Jess dies, Dean finds a health-food shop – which is pretty easy but also creepy as hell, all those guys with long hair and pasty skin and they don’t look that _healthy_ to Dean – and buys a salad – a freakin _salad_ , Jesus. He figures there’s no way a salad can taste of smoke, especially if he leaves off all the dressing and goop and crap, and he gets home to find Sam typing furiously, like somehow if he smashes the keyboard hard enough, he can make it suffer. Sam doesn’t even glance at him, and Dean sets the salad down next to the laptop and waits.  
  
It takes forty-five minutes, but finally Sam comes out of whatever it is he’s in, and looks up like he’s only just realised Dean’s in the room. Dean nods his head at the salad, and Sam looks down, frowns.  
  
“I’m not hungry,” he says.  
  
“You gotta eat,” says Dean ( _Sam’s_ got _to eat_ ), and when Sam opens his mouth again, Dean says, “Please.”  
  
Sam shovels half the salad in, chewing and swallowing like it’s physically painful, and when he starts actually crying, Dean looks away. The motel room’s pretty small, but Dean gets it, he gets that Sam needs privacy for all his gut is shrieking at him not to leave him alone, so he goes and sits in the Impala and watches the door.  
  
Half an hour later, he comes back in. Sam’s throwing up in the bathroom, door locked like it never used to be, and Dean closes his eyes for a moment and then throws the rest of the salad in the trash.  
  
\----  
  
Sam’s waving a knife at Dean, making some stupid face, and Dean’s pretty sure he thinks he’s just made an awesome point or whatever, but Dean’s not really paying attention, because he’s pretty sure Sam is chewing.   
  
“That’s not fear,” Dean says, brain still kinda fucked up on sleep, which, by the way, is totally one of Dean’s favourite drugs, “that is precaution.” Sam does the whole eyeroll thing that means _I can’t come up with a decent comeback but I’m going to act like I’m right anyway_ , and Dean’s pretty sure he’s won, but he’s not paying attention because he’s really, really sure now that Sam is chewing. It’s been five weeks, and Sam’s starting to look like a freakin charity appeal, and he’s talking, sure, thinking and arguing and drinking coffee by the bucketload and even smiling every now and again, which Dean would count a goddamn miracle if it wasn’t for the fact that Sam’s still not eating or sleeping, and Dean’s pretty sure that man can’t live by coffee alone or whatever the hell that stupid saying is. So Sam’s chewing, and Dean’s trying to figure out whether to mention it or just keep it to himself, a pleased little glow mixing in with generalised anxiety and oh hell no, Dean’s never mentioning _that_ , when the phone rings and then there’s other stuff to do.  
  
Later, Dean notices that the box of donuts that Sam brought is full. He thinks about it more than he probably should on the way to Pennsylvania, because being obsessed with your brother’s calorie intake is totally weird, right? Seriously, being obsessed with calories at all is totally a chick thing (and if Dean watches his weight every now and then, it’s only because he doesn’t have a freakishly fast metabolism like Sam), but being obsessed with someone _else’s_? That’s just wrong. So if Dean spends three hours calculating or whatever until he comes to the conclusion that whatever Sam was chewing, it wasn’t actual food, it’s only because he’s bored shitless and Sam is lame-ass company, and if he leaves the donut box open by Sam’s bed, it’s only because Sam bought the kind that Dean doesn’t like.   
  
\----  
  
It’s freakin cold in Michigan in December, and there’s frozen mud seeping into Dean’s boots and snow melting down the back of his neck and he’s really not in the mood to be outside at all, wants to be back in the warm with Sam, not chasing freakin fairies or whatever the hell they are across country, and definitely not doing it alone. Problem is, though, Sam’s come down with something ( _again_ ), and OK, maybe they do go on hunts sick all the time, but Sam’s gone from _charity appeal_ to _concentration camp victim_ , skin hanging off him like it’s not even his, and Dean knows why he’s sick all the time these days but he can’t do anything about it. So yeah, no way Sam’s coming on this hunt, and if people weren’t dying then Dean wouldn’t be on it, either, because he doesn’t like to hunt alone.  
  
Dean’s distracted, and actually, he doesn’t know shit about this case, not really. Sam’s research notes are basically incomprehensible, messy and barely coherent, but Dean doesn’t say anything, he’s freakin _awesome_ at not saying anything, and he figures if you’ve got a skill, you might as well use it, right? So he’s on this hunt, wading through what feels like three goddamn feet of snow looking for freakin _fairies_ , and then there’s this shadow moving and he turns and fires without even thinking (or, yeah, he’s thinking, but not about that), and there’s a shriek which makes Dean’s ears ring like a bitch, and then a minute later there’s a -- _thing_ , is what it is, Dean’s got no clue, rags hanging off it like weirdo tinsel, and a face, or Dean thinks it’s a face, anyway, and the thing shuffles closer, Dean’s trying to raise the gun but apparently his arm’s decided that now is a really awesome time to disconnect from his brain, and the thing stops and raises an, uh, appendage.  
  
“Thank you,” it says, or, anyway, Dean _thinks_ it says it, because OK, maybe it sounds like it’s actually inside Dean’s head, but that’s just _wrong_.  
  
Dean opens his mouth to say _don’t thank me yet, bitch_ , but the thing moves its thing – uh, appendage – a little. “By tradition of my kind, I may grant you one wish,” it thinks ( _says_ , Jesus), but Dean knows better than to take candy from freakin monsters, and he just wants this to be over, just wants to get the hell out of here and find some way to help his brother, he’s not gonna stand around debating fairy theology or whatever, so he says _you gotta be kidding me_.  
  
The thing gives Dean a weird look – OK, OK, so he’s not sure it’s capable of looking any way other than _weird_ \-- and then nods. Dean’s not sure what the hell kind of response that is, but a second later, it’s gone, vanished into nothing, and the EMF’s quiet and maybe Dean really ought to check the area, but he just wants to be back at the motel so he can take a shower.  
  
Dean’s halfway back when he realises he’s freakin _starving_. He picks up Chinese, Peking duck for himself and some soup for Sam, but Sam’s sleeping, actually _sleeping_ when he gets back, and after a couple of hours Dean eats the soup himself, because he’s freakin hungry and he can always get more. An hour later, he does, but Sam keeps right on sleeping and Dean’s still kinda peckish, so – well, whatever.  
  
Sam’s sick for three days, and Dean’s bored out of his mind, no sign of any further supernatural activity in the area, so all there is to do is watch infomercials and eat. When Sam finally crawls out of bed and into the shower (thank fucking _Christ_ , because the kid stinks to high heaven), he looks a lot better, like, better than he did even before he got sick, and Dean thinks about that for a few minutes, and then shrugs. Maybe it’s a little weird, but Dean’s never been one to complain when shit’s actually going his way for once.  
  
\----  
  
So Sam’s started sleeping again, which is awesome, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s eating, too, which is even better. OK, so he’s got no _proof_ that Sam’s eating, like, he hasn’t seen him actually put anything in his mouth and chew, but the colour’s back in his face and he looks more like a human being and less like a, well, a dead human being, and if the little freak wants to be secretive about whatever it is he’s chowing down on, Dean couldn’t give a shit as long as he’s not going for that whole Keira Knightley look any more. It’s kinda annoying that he never eats the crap he orders in diners, but Dean pretty much always manages to eat it for him, so that’s OK. At first, Sam does the whole bitchface thing whenever Dean steals his plate, like that doesn’t just make the food taste all the sweeter. Then he starts ordering shit he knows Dean can’t stand, hell, he orders shit even _he_ can’t stand, but Dean’s usually hungry enough to eat it anyway, and eventually Sam stops being a bitch about the whole thing and just lets Dean order for both of them. Which is awesome, but not nearly as awesome as the fact that apparently something freakish has happened to Dean’s metabolism and now he can eat pretty much as much as he wants and still keep his awesome abs (not that he spends a lot of time thinking about how awesome his abs are, obviously). It’s weird, is what it is, but Dean’s never been one to complain when shit’s actually going his way for once, so he just figures that he’s finally got whatever it is that Sam got when he was thirteen ( _on his thirteenth birthday_ ), wonders if maybe he’ll grow another few inches ( _five, five would be good_ ), and orders another burger.  
  
\----  
  
They’re in Richardson, Texas, and Dean’s beginning to think it’s the stupidest fucking hunt he’s ever been on (except that one back in Louisville, but they’ve all agreed never to mention that again), but hey, at least the plan is going well, and the whole prank war thing is just as awesome as Dean remembers it being, when Dean looks up and there’s something wrong with Sam. It’s not something obvious – not like he’s grown a second head or whatever, although that’s exactly the kind of thing Sam’d do, the freak – and in fact, it takes Dean a couple of seconds of surreptitious staring to figure out what it is, figure out that Sam’s face is moving in a way that – wait, is Sam actually _chewing_? Dean can’t remember the last time he saw that, and actually, it makes Sam’s face look kinda weird, distorted, did he used to look like that? Well, obviously, his face has always been _weird_ , but--  
  
And then Dean goes to put his beer down, and realises he has other problems, and he forgets all about Sam’s bizarre gurning until Sam’s hunched over at the side of the road, spitting out bile and looking confused, and Dean thinks _huh_. But Sam’s not starving, he’s not even that skinny any more, muscle building up where it never was before, and Dean knows something freakish is going on, he _knows_ it, but right now he has a bottle superglued to his hand and if Sam’s throwing up, well, it serves him the hell right.  
  
\----  
  
It’s not until Dean eats half a bag of M & Ms and Sam starts wheezing like a broken accordion that Dean figures maybe he really ought to figure out what the hell is up. Of course, the first thing that Dean has to deal with is that Sam can’t freakin _breathe_ , and he’s crouching on the ground, one hand on each side of Sam’s face, thinking _what the fuck is this what how how do I stop it Sam Sam Sammy_ when Sam whispers _allergic_ , and Dean’s about to ask him what the fuck that means when Sam passes out.  
  
They’re in a diner somewhere, and Dean has no idea, not even which _state_ , Dean couldn’t tell you the time of day or the year or what he was doing, all he can tell you is that Sam’s passed out on the floor barely breathing and he doesn’t know what to _do_ , but there’s this guy who’s been hovering and he yells _anyone here have an epipen?_ , and moments later he’s shoving Dean aside and stabbing Sam in the freakin knee with something and Dean’s pretty sure he’s about to lose it completely and someone’s going to die ( _and it’s not going to be Sam, please God let it not be Sam_ ) when Sam’s body jerks a little and he sucks in a breath and opens his eyes.  
  
Dean feels all the power go out of his legs, and he drops on his ass in a way that would be totally undignified if it wasn’t for the fact that he just watched his brother almost _die_ , so it doesn’t freakin count. “Jesus,” he mutters, rubs a hand over the lower half of his face, and grabs Sam by the shoulder, just to make sure he’s still _there_. “What the fuck, Sammy? What the fuck was that?”  
  
Sam blinks up at him. “I’m allergic to peanuts,” he says, and yeah, Dean knows that, but it’s not a big deal, sometimes Sam gets, like, a rash or whatever if he eats something that some idiot has put half a peanut in without mentioning, but it’s never this bad, and anyway, Sam wasn’t eating anything ( _never eats anything any more_ ).  
  
“I don’t get it,” he says, and Sam cuts his eyes away and sighs.  
  
“We need to talk,” he says.  
  
\----  
  
Dean’s never been one to complain when shit’s actually going his way for once, but Sam, Sam’s always got to know everything about everything, how things work, _why_ they work, and what the hell is up with that? Dean doesn’t get it: if it works, it works; if it doesn’t, it gets a one-way ticket to trashcan central. The point is, though, is that Dean isn’t the only one who’s noticed that something weird is going on, except that, as it turns out, it’s weirder even than he thought. See, it’s not just that Sam hasn’t been eating in front of Dean, it’s that Sam hasn’t been _eating_ , not for more than six months, and OK, Dean’s maybe willing to accept that ( _maybe_ ), because Sam _is_ a total freak after all, but then Sam says _I think you’re eating for me_ and that? Well, that’s just--  
  
“Freakin weird, is what it is,” says Dean, and Sam shrugs.  
  
“Because the rest of our lives are so normal,” he says.  
  
“Yeah, but this isn’t some poltergeist or demon or whatever,” says Dean. “This is--” But he doesn’t know what it is, not really; all he knows is that Sam’s depending on Dean to keep him alive.  
  
“--a whole new level of fucked up,” says Sam. “I know.”  
  
Dean stares. Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, frowning down at his knees like he’s blaming himself for something. Sam’s depending on Dean to keep him alive, and that’s, that’s--  
  
That’s completely _normal_.  
  
“Your face is a whole new level of fucked up,” says Dean, and Sam looks startled, and then throws a pillow at him and tries to hide his grin.  
  
\----  
  
It’s weird, is what it is, and at the same time, nothing’s changed. Apparently this has been going on for months, and Dean never even really noticed ( _didn’t want to notice_ ), and yeah, OK, so it’s Dean’s job to keep Sam alive, but seriously, Dean wouldn’t mind if he could be in charge of a few more of Sam’s bodily functions, like, you know, breathing or whatever, because Sam is so damn good at fucking them up. Not all of them, though. That’d just be gross.  
  
So they experiment, or at least, _Dean_ experiments. Apparently, Sam doesn’t have any choice in the matter, which is actually kinda awesome, and Sam glares and says something about _denying me agency_ , but Dean just snorts and says _suck it up, bitch_ , spraying fragments of bacon all over the table. Sam doesn’t taste the food ( _thank Christ_ , says Sam, staring at Dean’s chicken-fried steak like it’s got twelve eyes and teeth like a great white), and apparently, he doesn’t get hungry, either, but that’s OK, because Dean is definitely hungry enough for the both of them. Apart from peanuts, Sam’s not allergic to anything, and for all his prissy sneering at good, honest grease, he’s got a cast-iron stomach, so Dean feels fully justified in putting whatever the hell he likes into it. If that’s even how it works. Dean tries to avoid thinking about it too hard, because it’s just, well, _weird_.  
  
“And anyway,” he adds, ignoring the side salad that Sam pointedly ordered, “what, so, you just figured you’d _let_ yourself starve to death? What the hell, Sammy?” He remembers the way Sam’s cheekbones stuck out of his skin and suddenly he’s angry and frustrated all over again.  
  
“I don’t know,” says Sam. “I just... At first I was just happy to not have to, you know,” he waves at Dean’s plate. “I mean, it just. Anyway, and then it was obvious that I didn’t need to eat, and I was, I don’t know.” He purses his mouth suddenly, looks away. “Guess I was scared that something was wrong with me.”  
  
Dean thinks back to when all this started, and maybe he would have worked harder on figuring out what was going on, except that Sam started seeing things before they happened, and Dean figured secret eating really wasn’t too much of an issue. Yeah, OK.  
  
“Something _is_ wrong with you,” he says, waving his fork instructively, and he’s about to start making a list when Sam drags his plate away and shoves the salad forward.  
  
“Yeah, my brother’s a pig,” he says, and Dean grins.  
  
“Hey,” he says, rubbing his stomach, “I’m eating for two now.”  
  
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you just said that,” says Sam, looking sick, and Dean shoves a handful of fries in his mouth.  
  
“Shut up,” he says, “or I’m ordering chillies.”   
  
\----  
  
It’s not all sunshine and cheese steaks, though. Dean gets mauled by a black dog in Tennessee and wakes up staring at a blurry white blob that gradually resolves into a blurry white ceiling. _Hospital_ , he thinks, and then _Sam_.  
  
It hurts to move his head, but he does it anyway, but the chair next to him is empty. Dean fumbles for the call button, fingers thick and clumsy, and a moment later there’s a concerned-looking guy wearing a concerned-looking smile and a concerned-looking freakin name-tag and _where the fuck is Sam?_  
  
“How are you feel--” Concern Boy starts, but Dean reaches up and grabs hold of the front of his shirt, and yeah, OK, maybe the impact is kinda screwed over by the fact that he’s got the strength of a three-year-old girl right now, but Dean still knows how to be a mean son of a bitch.  
  
“Where’s my brother,” he croaks (yeah, but it’s an intimidating croak, OK?), and Concern Boy holds up his hands.  
  
“I really think you need to calm down. We’re doing everything we can for your br--”  
  
“What the _fuck_ is wrong with him?” says Dean, and the guy kinda squeaks something about getting a doctor. Dean’s feeling a little dizzy, but he’s not planning on doing any more sleeping until he finds out what’s going on with Sam, and a few minutes later he’s sitting back against the pillows glaring at a guy who’s saying something about _hypoglycaemia_ and _fainting fits_.  
  
“So the problem is,” the guy finishes, worrying nervously at the edge of his clipboard, “we can’t find a way to bring his blood sugar up. He just keeps throwing up everything we give him, and--”  
  
Dean’s not listening any more, he’s already on his feet, ripping off the IVs and heading for the corridor, and there’s yelling behind him and someone’s keeping pace with him, trying to block him off, but Dean’s an expert at ignoring shit and moments later he’s in the cafeteria, listing to one side and sending the server his best death-glare.  
  
“Get me a goddamn cheeseburger right now,” he says.  
  
Dean eats three burgers, two plates of fries and five bowls of green Jello before he starts to feel kinda sick (OK, _more_ sick, because he’s in a hospital so obviously he’s already sick, right?). The doctor gave up hovering half an hour ago, and Dean’s just considering falling asleep on the table when Sam drops into the chair across from him, slumping down like he’s completely exhausted. He looks messed up, dark circles under his eyes and fingers shaking, but that’s got to be the hypo-whatever, right?   
  
“Thank God,” Sam mutters, and Dean contemplates the few fries left on the second plate, then figures they’ll be lonely by themselves and starts collecting them together.  
  
“Yeah, well,” he says. “Heard you fainted like a girl, figured I better do something about it. Gotta think of my image, you know?”  
  
Sam just stares for a moment, like he’s never even seen Dean before, then shakes his head with a tiny smile. “Not what I meant,” he says.  
  
“How long was I out, anyway?” Dean asks.  
  
“Five days,” says Sam, dropping his head, and his voice sounds wrecked, which is weird because Dean’s pretty sure starving doesn’t do anything to your vocal chords.  
  
“Dude,” says Dean. He thinks about five days without food and then hastily thinks about something else, because seriously, that shit is just _wrong_. “Must have sucked.”   
  
Sam doesn’t look up, greasy bangs hiding his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “It really did.”  
  
\----  
  
Dean still sends Sam out to get food, because just because he isn’t eating it, doesn’t mean he doesn’t benefit, right? Sam usually tries to sneak something vaguely healthy in, but Dean’s got, like, a built-in vegetable detector or something, and eventually, Sam stops bothering. And then one day, Dean sends Sam out on a burger run in West Texas, and Sam doesn’t come back.   
  
A week later, Dean’s lying on the floor of Bobby’s house with a hole in his shoulder that hurts like someone fucking shot him and then stuck their freakishly long fingers in and twisted, and Sam blinks, face twisted in confusion, and says _did I miss anything?_ , and Dean’s pretty sure he deserves a medal for only smacking Sam once.  
  
Bobby helps Dean up and onto the couch, and then crouches down and explains what’s happened to Sam, voice low so that Dean only catches a few words ( _possession_ , _branding_ , _not your fault_ ), and a few minutes later, Sam comes over to the couch, eyes shadowed, and says _what did I do?_  
  
“Oh, you know,” Dean says, “took up smoking and hard liquor, hit on a few girls. Same old, same old.”  
  
“ _Dean_ ,” says Sam, and Dean closes his eyes at the horror in his brother’s voice, doesn’t want to do this now, _not now, Sammy’s OK, we’ll deal with it later_.   
  
“Some other time, Sam,” he says, feeling the pain radiate from his shoulder like cold fire. Sam opens his mouth to argue, then suddenly goes pale and stumbles, and Dean thinks _shit shit what now can’t deal with anything else right now_ , and then Sam staggers into the bathroom and starts heaving, and Dean can’t help being a little glad that, whatever else Meg did on her little vacation in Sam’s body, she obviously didn’t forget to eat.  
  
\----  
  
“Dean,” says Sam, “there’s something crawling up my leg.”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows and carefully props Sam by the door, then fumbles in his pocket for the keys. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” he says. “It’ll take, like, an hour to get anywhere good.”  
  
“No,” says Sam, “you don’t get it. It’s _crawling_ up my _leg_. That’s, like. It’s not what should be going on.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and pushes open the door, and before he can stop him Sam’s straightened up, or, well, made himself slightly less tilted, anyway, and stumbled through. Dean curses and goes for his phone, but he doesn’t quite get it in time to capture Sam’s spectacular slow-motion collapse onto the crappy green carpet. Life is so unfair sometimes.   
  
“Dean,” says Sam from his position on the floor. “’M I drunk?”  
  
Dean grins and shoves his phone back in his pocket, then drops down to take off Sammy’s shoes, because, hey, might as well do that when he hasn’t got any further to fall, right? “Know how you can tell if you’re drunk?” he says.  
  
Sam blinks a couple of times and frowns. “...no?” he says.  
  
“If you can touch your nose with your elbow,” says Dean, already pulling the phone back out, and he gets, like, fifteen shots of Sam trying to contort his stupid yeti arms towards his face before Sam finally manages to poke himself in the eye with the index finger of his _other_ hand and gives up.  
  
“Shit,” he says, then, “wait. I thought you were supposed to be lining my stomach?” He glares up at Dean, but the effect’s kind of ruined by the fact that his eyes aren’t quite focussed and he looks pretty much like a drunken puppy.  
  
“Hey,” says Dean, raising his hands palms outwards, “you’re twenty-three years old, sparky. You need to take responsibility for your own actions.”  
  
Sam’s head flops back down and he stares at the ceiling. “Bastard,” he says, and then, “Dean?”  
  
“What?” says Dean.  
  
“There’s something crawling up my leg.”  
  
Dean grins. He’s starving, hasn’t eaten all day, but this was _so_ worth it. “Go to sleep, genius.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes, and a second later he starts to snore. Dean watches him a few more minutes, then opens the laptop and starts figuring out how to upload photos to the internet.  
  
\----  
  
“Dean?” says Bobby “I brought you this back.”   
  
Dean doesn’t look round, doesn’t care what it is. He thinks he probably says something, because Bobby says _you should eat something_ , but whatever’s happening, whatever conversation he’s having, it’s not real, none of this is real, it _can’t_ be. He’s asleep, or in a coma, or being tortured by a djinn or _something_ , but whatever it is, Sam is not lying on a dirty mattress in South Dakota looking like he’s never going to get up again.  
  
Bobby leaves at some point, though Dean doesn’t remember him going, and Dean sees that the table’s piled with food, but his eyes just skate over it. He’s not hungry, and he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be hungry again.  
  
He’s wrong, though, because two hours later, he’s standing at a crossroads with a demon grinning right in his face, the feel of her lips and teeth still on his mouth, and pain lances through his gut, and it takes him a moment to identify it, but when he does, the name he puts to it is _Sammy_. He leaves without another word and drives back faster than he even knew the Impala could go, hunger scraping the edges of his stomach all the way.  
  
Sam’s standing in the dimness, _standing_ , and Dean thinks maybe he’s just going to collapse right then and there, but he doesn’t, _can’t let Sammy know what’s going on_ , and then he’s dragging Sam through to the kitchen without really thinking, he just wants _so hard_ to feed Sam and, Jesus, bathe him and put him to bed and OK, that’s weird, not to mention the fact it totally makes him sound like a chick, but Sam’s not dead, he’s _not dead_ , and it’s not till later, till the demon grins at him and says _how certain are you_ that Dean remembers Sam putting food in his mouth back in South Dakota, _eating_ , Christ, and his belly floods with ice.  
  
And then there’s no time to think about it, because demons are pouring out of hell and Dad’s there, _Dad_ , and then the demon’s dead and Sam’s looking at him and saying _did you sell your soul for me?_ and Jesus, it’s been a hell of a day. Dean doesn’t even think about it again until they’re halfway across the state and Sam suddenly says _pull over_.  
  
Five minutes later, Sam’s on his hands and knees on the verge, coughing up half-digested General Tso’s, and Dean’s standing behind him and grinning, because _that_ , at least, is one hundred per cent pure Sam.  
  
\----  
  
Dean’s got a month to live when he realises that all his planning has gone to shit.  
  
“Sam,” he says, and Sam looks up, frowns.   
  
“What?” he says, and the frown deepens. “Jesus, Dean, what is it?”  
  
“How’re you going to eat?” Dean says, and even saying the words makes the back of his throat feel like sand. Sam just stares, and Dean jumps up and starts to pace. “When I’m gone,” he says. “How’re you going to – Jesus, Sam, how’re you going to _eat_?”  
  
Sam looks – he looks completely unsurprised, the little bastard, like he thought of this months ago, and probably he did. “You’re not going anywhere,” he says, calm, like Dean can’t see the way his skin is stretched and tight and fraying round the edges. “I won’t let it happen.”  
  
“But what if it _does_?” Dean says, knowing he’s shouting now, but who gives a shit, Dean’s going to hell and then Sam’s going to die anyway, he’s going to freakin _starve_ , and it’s all Dean’s fault and Jesus _Christ_ how could he be so _stupid_?  
  
“Hey, hey!” says Sam, jumping up and putting himself right in Dean’s way, grabbing his shoulders and forcing him to stop moving. “I’ll figure something out, OK? I’ll talk to Bobby. It’s gonna be fine, Dean, I promise.”  
  
Dean stares and backs down, because he can’t think of anything else to do, but the panic in his belly slips up a notch, and he eats way more than necessary from then on, shovelling food down his throat at every opportunity until Sam starts to complain about feeling bloated and lethargic. Three days before the year is up, Dean sends an email to Bobby with everything he knows about how this _thing_ between him and Sam works, and then next day he tries to broach the subject again and Sam starts screaming at him, words at first and then just incoherent noises until the door slams and Dean is left alone.  
  
The day after that, Dean finds himself standing at a crossroads at midnight, shoulder to shoulder with Sam and nothing but a pathetic circle of goofer dust standing between him and forever.   
  
The demon’s on time, red eyes glowing in the thick darkness, and Dean sees the hell-hounds this time, slinking and circling round her feet, grinning up at him. “Well,” she says. “Nice of you to come out all this way, Dean. Makes everything so much easier.”  
  
“He’s not going anywhere,” says Sam, and the demon looks at him and smiles.  
  
“Oh, you brought little Sammy,” she says. “Did you want to watch him die?” She turns those eyes on Dean again, and Dean heaves in a breath and is preparing himself to step over the circle of dust when a car screeches up and Bobby tumbles out.  
  
“Wait!” he shouts. “Wait. You can’t take him.”  
  
The demon keeps smiling, but she looks annoyed now. “Can’t say I approve of the sideshow, Dean,” she says. “Nice of you to invite everyone you know to watch you get ripped apart, though.”   
  
Dean’s staring at Bobby, and he’s ready to go, OK, he’s _ready_ , and even if he wasn’t ( _he is, he is_ ), he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, because it’s either this or watch Sammy die, and that’s never happening again, _never_. And then all the same, there’s hope curling up under the fear, because it’s _Bobby_ , and--  
  
“You can’t take him,” Bobby repeats, and the demon wrinkles her nose and turns to him.  
  
“We made a deal, fair and square,” she says. “His soul for Sam’s life.”  
  
Bobby shakes his head. “Look a little closer. You take his soul, Sam’ll die anyway.”  
  
The demon frowns and turns back, stares at Dean like she’s trying to see inside him, and Dean feels prickling at the base of his skull and has to fight the urge to just take off. A second later, the demon’s face goes from annoyance to anger. “You did something,” she says. “What did you do?”  
  
Dean’s shaking his head, but then Sam straightens up beside him, and Dean looks up to see Sam’s face going from confused to triumphant. “It was already done when you made the deal,” he says. “You made it anyway. You take his soul, I die, you break your end of the bargain.”   
  
Dean looks from Sam to the demon to Bobby, and there’s roaring in his ears and tingling behind his eyes and what the _fuck_ is going on?  
  
“You son of a bitch,” says the demon. “You never told me you were bonded over.”  
  
Dean still has no idea what this is all about, but the demon’s pissed and Sam’s grinning like an idiot, and that’s _got_ to be a good thing, so he raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Shoulda read the fine print, bitch,” he says.  
  
The demon shakes her head, beautiful features distorting inhumanly. “You’ll regret this,” she says. “All of you will.”  
  
“I’m shaking,” says Dean, and then black smoke explodes out of her mouth, and a moment later, she’s gone.  
  
Sam sags, and Dean would totally catch him if he wasn’t about to pass out himself. “Jesus,” he says.  
  
“Did that really just work?” asks Sam, looking like he’s just been smacked around by a biker and then told he’s won the lottery.  
  
“Looks that way,” says Bobby.  
  
“Guys, seriously,” says Dean ( _not going to hell not going not going_ ), “what the fuck just happened?”  
  
Sam and Bobby both turn to look at him, and Dean shakes his head and holds up his hands, because he's never been one to complain when shit's actually going his way for once.  
  
“You know what?” he says. “Explain it to me over lunch. I’m freakin starving.”


End file.
